Grumpy: Ai, yes, ff.net was being difficult. Stupid thing. And, uh, Aragorn's nightmares are about to become rather . . . Worse. *smiles grimly* Mm, as for what he was looking for. . . . How about I wait, and if by the last chapter you don't know, I'll tell you? How does that sound? *g* Enter the owners of the sharp pointy things. And I happen to think this chapter is fairly good, too. Lol. At least, I'm not having a fit about posting it. My favorite is still *clamps hands over mouth* to come. *g*
Nell Marie: *bows gallantly* I try. Honestly, I do. If it doesn't feel right, then it doesn't go over right, or at least I think so. And, I think, that asking what could possibly happen next is a bad thing. Didn't anyone ever tell you that? *looks wide-eyed* What happens next is what prompted this whole story. It has just taken a really long time to get there.
Deana: hehe. There are a couple things that come to mind when I think of puns: James Bond, Pokemon, and double entendees. Don't ask why. *g* "Good" is subjective, but we shall see. Did his dream come true? Hmm. Maybe, maybe not. Muahahahah. *g*
Bill the Pony: No medication!? No! *looks agast* That cannot be. Mm, I'm not sure if this chapter counts as a cliffie or not. I don't think so, but then, I already know what's going to happen, so it doesn't surprise me at all. *g*
NaughtyNat, is this one yours? I seem to remember a similar incident somewhere else, where no name appeared. Lol. So, this one seems like yours. Gandalf actually had nothing to do with it. I got these from someone far less scrupulous. At peril of death, too. Hehe. Wow, babysitting. . . .I hate babysitting. It would likely be wise for me to never have children. I can't stand being around little ones for so long. I'm glad the descriptions are good. I'm always worried I take it too far. You know, Aragorn gets plenty of advice, from Elrond, from Legolas, from his brothers, and it doesn't ever really leave him, he just hasn't figured out how to listen to it yet. *g* lol. I wonder who's fault that is? *looks innocent and begins whistling* hehe.
Okay, now on to the next chapter. I hope it lives up to everybody's high standards. *g* Next chapter on Tuesday. *repeats in an effort to remember it* So have fun! And review. Love reviews. They're inspiring. *g*
Chapter 9
Unexpected Haven
"Who are you and from where do you hail?" a harsh voice demanded before him. "Speak or die."
He frowned slightly, not exactly sure what he had expected, but aware this was not it. "Strider, Ranger of the North," he managed eventually. "I seek aide for my friend. We were attacked by Wargs and Orcs. I mean no harm."
There was movement in the dark, frantic whispering. He wished he had elven ears and could make out what they were saying. As it was, he only caught words, disconnected phrases: useful . . . rangers . . . men . . . an opportunity . . . no . . . fine. He had no idea if they were spoken by the same person or several, but he thought they came from three separate locations.
Then a hand landed on his left shoulder and he grimaced in pain. "You will come with us," the voice said. Then two people approached him from either side and grabbed his arms, leading him through the darkness. His body tensed, expecting hard contact with a tree with every step. Unconsciously, his grip tightened on the still form of his friend.
They walked for several hours, silence hanging around the group. None of their mysterious helpers (captors?) said a word after those initial few. Aragorn, during the brief moments he turned away from the monitoring of his friend, caught an air of grim nervousness combined with determination. It was a feeling he was used to getting around novices exposed to combat for the first time, yet these beings did not seem inexperienced.
The ease with which they navigated the dark forest spoke of long familiarity, of a path frequently trodden. Their bearing, too, spoke of long experience. He wished he could see them. More than that, though, he wished he could see Legolas.
The elf's extended time unconcscious concerned him. He had neither awakened nor stirred, and the ranger hoped desperately that no injuries persisted that were worse than he had thought, or were yet hidden beyond his sight. The realization that along with the head injury, Legolas could have gained internal damage that he could not detect weighed heavily on his mind. Also, without light he had been unable to determine if the head wound included a concussion.
That he had yet to waken and had never been awake made him jittery, a nervous excitement that kept adrenaline flowing through his veins, sustaining him and yet draining his energy at the same time. Of Númenorean descent though he was, Aragorn could not sustain that state for much longer with neither food nor drink nor rest. Something would have to give, and the ranger feared it would be him, and that it would happen before he could see to Legolas.
Eventually, the trees began to thin and Aragorn caught sight of earth seeming rising up to form a wall before them. He had never known the ground to that before and he was highly confused. Did it seek to block their passage? Only elf-enchanted realms or the cruel Caradras were known--
He blinked in surprise, the answer hitting him quite suddenly. Mountains, of course. The young man was sure that had Legolas known his thoughts he would have burst out laughing hysterically and Aragorn would never be able to it down. Already tired, the ranger was hard-pressed not to burst out laughing himself.
The appearance of mountains meant one thing: he now knew where they were. In the middle of Mirkwood, there was only one mountain range: The Mountains of Mirkwood a fair distance from the palace but no where near as close to Dol Guldor as they had feared they had somehow managed to accomplish in less than a day's travel. Of course, they never should have been able to make the Mountains, either.
Of course, now that he knew roughly where they were, he also had to wonder that orcs were so close to the elven realm. It was disquieting to him and the ranger was sure Legolas would find it even more so; he was fiercely protective of his home and decidely hostile towards anything evil that dared to encroach upon it, and far from welcoming to anything that was questionable and dared enter his realm, as were many of the other elves. The flip- side was that so long as one stayed away, they could hardly care less what happened.
It was a mentality Aragorn hardly shared. The suffering of all the free peoples of Middle-earth concerned him greatly, be they men, elves or even dwarves. The evil that roamed Arda concerned him greatly, in fact, and his heart would not allow him to dismiss any species to such a dark fate.
That is not to say, however, that he did not understand. As much as was possible for someone raised differently, he did. The wood-elves were largely secluded, rarely having visitors and kept very much to themselves, an arrangement that was almost as much necessity as preference. Seclusion rarely gave itself to engendering concern for other nations or interest in others' affairs. Add to that the encroaching darkness and the constant threat the elves had to defend against, and wide traveling became near impossible.
Legolas, he knew, was more open to interactions with different species. He enjoyed traveling--most of the time, and had overcome much of his hesitancies toward men, and had even developed a kind of . . . understanding with the dwarves, for all that he still disliked them intensely. It made their friendship easier that the elf was willing to accept the human despite their differences. Aragorn did not see it, of course, but it was more because of his differences that Legolas truly cherished his friend.
Eventually, small lights began to intrude on his vision, visible as small pinpricks in the distance that seemed to dance among the trees, vanishing and reappearing as the travellers' view shifted. It was mesmerizing, actually, but Aragorn appreciated the effect only so far as it allowed him to get a better view of his friend.
The elf's natural glow had been practically non-existent after his injuires, only the briefest flickers lighting up the area and had been swallowed by the sheer blackness of Mirkwood. Had it been anywhere else, Aragorn was sure he would have been able to see at least a slight glow from the elf. Now, though, he could finally get a glance of his friend.
His eyes were closed, and his face pale where dirt did not shade it a darker color. No color tinted his cheeks to indicate a fever, which the human took to be a good sign, and neither was he unusually cool, which was definately a good sign. He checked his pulse, and discovered that, while slow, it had evened out and was no longer so terrifyingly erratic.
That, too, was a good sign. He could now hope that Legolas' elven body was recovering and his wounds were healing. The only thing that could make him completely confident of such an opinion, though, was if the elf prince would wake up. He wanted desperately for his friend to wake up.
As they neared the village, he also managed to get his first true look at their new friends. The one he took to be the leader was tall, about two inches shorter than he was, with straight jet black hair cut just below his ears. He had slightly aristocratic features, with defined cheekbones and a straight nose. His eyes were what was the most striking, though; a pale ice blue that was intense. Aragorn had a feeling that if he tried, he would look thoroughly insane. There was just something about eyes so light in color that leant a dangerous air. Another had curly brown hair and dark brown eyes that were almost black and looked it in the darkness. That one appeared to be the youngest of the lot.
There were eight men and each carried a crossbow and were dressed not so differently form the wood-elves, save for the design and cut of the clothing. The idea, however, was obviously the same: to blend in. He glanced behind him and found himself staring into emerald green eyes in a pale face, freckles just visible across the man's nose, with red-gold hair. The man who walked next to him had similar eyes and hair but looked older by about four years and was likely a brother. The other four had drifted too far away for him to observe, and he turned his attention back to the village they were approaching and were now close enough to see.
The houses were small and made of carefully packed mud bricks. Tarps hung over the doors and the roofs were covered in straw, the points sticking into the air and little lines of smoke curling from the tops of some of them.
It was a quiet sort of village, small and out of the way, sparsely populated if the number of houses were any indication. No one was out and the ranger glanced up, catching sight of stars above him, his eyes finding Earendil with little difficulty. Lord Erlond's father, he mused, then halted suddenly, his eyes going wide.
Fear had struck him, almost a physical blow, knocking out his air. The most perturbing part was that it was not his fear: it was the fear in the village. Wide eyes blinked quickly as his tired and over-stressed mind tried to puzzle out what it all meant.
A couple of his new companions glared at him irritably while the leader glanced at him curiously. "Is something wrong, Ranger?" he asked.
Apprehension, vague an implacable, curled up his spine. He was going to have to start telling people not to call him "Ranger." The people who did usually did not have his best interests at heart. Still. . . . "No, nothing is wrong," he replied and continued walking, working hard to ignore a distant part of his mind that started roaring with laughter: never was "nothing" wrong.
The leader led him to a small shack, his pale eyes almost seeming to disappear into the white of his eyes in the darkness, sending a shudder down the ranger's back. The man turned. "You can stay here this night. Supplies and food will be brought to you. We ask only that you remain in here until you are retrieved tomorrow."
Aragorn nodded, then carried the elf inside, the tarp swishing loudly behind him. If nothing else, it was comforting to know they were not being locked in. The ranger was not too fond of locks, especially locks which secured doors. Especially doors that secured the only entrance or exit from the room he was stuck in.
There was a short cot about a foot above the ground in the back of the shack, and Aragorn gently lowered the elf prince onto, exceedingly careful of the other's wounds. Carefully, he unwound both chest and head wound to see how they fared; neither appeared to be too terrible, and he felt that as soon as Legolas' blood pressure raised, he would be more or less well again.
He looked up as three women entered: one bearing a tray with various food, another a pail, and another a bag. All three items were set near him and the women left, their job accomplished, without ever saying a word.
Curious, he checked the contents, discovering water and several bandages and healing herbs. It was the sugar, though, that he was most grateful to find. He reached toward his own pack just in time for two more people to enter, each bearing a rather large armful of firewood. This, too, was delivered in silence and the people gone without a word.
The ranger blinked, but decided, for the moment at least, he did not want to know. Taking the arrival of the wood as good luck he was sure would not last, he stacked it and started a fire in the small firepit he located not too far from his current position. Then he took a small bowl, designed for such things, and poured water into it before setting it on the fire to boil.
While he waited, he attended to the task of cleaning the prince's wounds to ensure they would not become infected. Both had stopped bleeding, and were not terribly upset when he cleaned them, only a small trickle of blood escaping before stopping. He rebound both and leaned forward, hovering over Legolas so he could see the other's eyes. Carefully, he pried each one open and was pleased to note they were not unevenly dilated nor dilated too much or too little. The elf, at least, did not have a concusion.
He turned back to the pot with it's boiling water and removed it from the fire, setting it on a heat pad his father had insisted on packing years ago, after having determined a need for it.
~*~
"Here, my son," the lord of Rivendell said, placing a rubbery square in the youth's hands.
Aragorn looked at it with a small frown before looking back into the blue eyes of his fahter. "What's this for, Ada?"
"You mean you do not recognize it?"
The amusement in that voice was enough to convince the ranger of a closer look, and he studied it carefully, turning the object over for better and more thorough inspection. It was still just a flat rubber square. He bounced it slightly, then held it flat in his left hand. And like he had just been struck with a bolt of lightning, he knew what it was: a heat pad, for placing hot objects on so as not to destroy other surfaces.
He met the amused glance of Lord Elrond. "But, Ada, what do I need this for? I travel the Wilds, there is no furniture there to mess up. And I haven't done that in years!"
Elrond laughed. "Indeed you have not, though that may be because you are the one being treated and not the other way around."
"Ada!"
The elf lord laughed harder, then waved him to silence. "Peace, ion nin. You never know when you might need it; a place to set a hot object you know is safe, when you cannnot be sure of anything else, might come in handy."
"You aren't predicting trouble, are you, Father?" Aragorn asked suspiciously.
The disbelief on the elf lord's face nearly set the young man off in a fit of giggles. "With you, anything is possible, and trouble is likely. Should your path once again cross that of the prince of Mirkwood, I would wager it shifts to trouble is unavoidable."
Aragorn blinked, a slight frown pulling at his lips, even though his eyes sparkled. "Your faith is simply overwhelming, Ada," he said dryly. "I don't know how I shall ever manage to live up to it."
"Just come back safe, and I care not whether you have saved a village or burned a forest."
"Legolas might care."
Elrond chuckled. "Indeed, he might. Especially if it is his forest you burned."
~*~
He shook his head slightly. He would have to remember to thank his father again. Then, once the water had cooled sufficiently, though not too much, he dumped in a fair amount of the sugar, watching as it dissolved and stirring it slowly to insure it did. Once it was melted, he poured the substance into a different bowl to cool to drinking level.
The young man glanced up at Legolas, a compulsory check, before looking back down. Then it dawned on him that something was different and he looked back up.
Blue eyes watched him tiredly in the flickering candlelight. Then, when the prince noticed him looking at him, he smiled slightly. "Well, this seems somehow familiar, though the room has changed yet again."
Aragorn smiled in return. "Aye, my friend. And I must insist you never do that again unless you want to send me to the Hall of Mandos, for I do not think I could endure another scare like that one." HIs intense silver eyes revealed the fear and pain his voice did not.
"Ah," Legolas replied, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before returning his attention to the ranger. "Then I might counsel you remember the feeling the next time you feel the need to try some crazy stunt that gets you injured, and reconsider."
The ranger's smile faltered, and tears glinted in his eyes, dancing in the flicker of the flames. "How do you feel?" he asked, one hand moving forward to rest lightly on his chest, bare inches from where the orc blade had skewered the elf.
"Umm," the other groaned, arcing his back slightly as he stretched. "Tired. Sore. Comparatively fine."
Aragorn mock glared at him. "You just had to say you were fine, didn't you?"
"I'm still alive and on the mend," Legolas answered, his voice still soft. "That's good enough to be classified as fine, considering the alternative."
The ranger simply nodded, closing his eyes against the tears that demanded release. He would not cry. He would not. Tears had fallen from him far too often of late, and he refused to burden Legolas with his frailties while he had other things to worry about. He opened his eyes to find two blue orbs studying him worriedly. "As soon as it cools, I have something for you to drink," he announced with a gentle smile.
Legolas glared. "What?"
"Sugar-water."
"Sugar-water? I am not some baby to be coddled, Strider."
"Of course not," the ranger agreed, picking up the gourd and testing the temperature of the liquid inside. "You are simply an elf who has lost far too much blood and needs as much help as possible in returning to normal as quickly as possible so as not to excessively worry this poor ranger, forcing him to mother you for an extended period of time." He grinned, a wicked look that promised much if the elf resisted. "Drink."
A slight smile pulled at the fair being's lips, but he sat up, for once not arguing. Aragorn helped him into a better position for drinking, and supported him while he downed the liquid.
When he finished, Aragorn eased him back down. Amusement flashed briefly in the man's eyes. "You might be grateful, you know. No sleeping draught and an extra reason for sugar. Many a child would enjoy that immensely."
"But it is you who are still the child, Aragorn, not I," Legolas denied with a smile.
The ranger gave him a rather dark look. "And you object to a brief return to childhood? Perhaps you hit your head harder than I thought." The ranger moved as if to check his head, and Legolas laughingly pushed him away.
"Enough, Strider. I am well. Where are we?"
"Near the Mountains of Mirkwood."
"What? How did we get so far south?"
"I know not, my friend, but it happened." Aragorn scrubbed a hand over his face, weariness pulling at him. It was a mystery that he could not even begin to solve. Traveling on foot, they had not even been walking quickly but traveling leisurely. Despite that, they had ended up nearly a three-day journey away from the palace. He shook his head. "Legolas, we really are something." A questioning look was the only reply. "Do you know of anyone else, besides us, who can get lost and end up farther away than is concievably possible?"
The elf snorted, turning his attention to the ceiling, a slight smile pulling at his lips. "Oh, Strider. You think of the most rediculous things."
"It's not ridiculous!"
The elf prince turned to fix him with a steady stare. "Go to sleep, human. I know well how unbearable you are when you are exhausted, and I know you are. Don't you dare try and deny you are tired!"
Aragorn closed his mouth, cutting off his denial before he had a chance to express it. He smiled slightly, realizing how very well his friend knew him. "I'm so sorry, Legolas."
A suspicious look was directed his way. "I know those words, son of Arathorn," he said quietly. "They usual preceede you apologizing for some ill you think you are responsible for after I am injured, and if that is your intent, unless you want me to get up and tackle you, you will cease immediately."
"But, Legolas!" He began, only to stop as the elf glared and began to press himself up, and he hastily moved forward to press the other back down, changing his story slightly. "I merely meant to express my regret that I shall not be able to keep you company this night. Long have you told me how little sleep you need, and as you have already done much sleeping, I fear you will be up all night, and I am far too tired to remain with you."
Legolas' blue eyes twinkled with surpressed amusement. "Very well. I will do my best to manage without you for a few hours."
Aragorn nodded and slowly eased himself down to the floor next to the elf, automatically grabbing one of the packs to place under his head as a make-shift pillow. Almost as soon as his head was down, he was fast asleep.
Legolas watched from his prone position on the cot, a fond smile playing about the corners of his lips. Sadness touched his eyes, though, and the elf moved slowly to a sitting position. Carefully, he reached out and pulled the other pack to him, riffling through it until he found what he souhgt: a blanket. One of fine weave by the elves, versatile and light, not to mention easily packed away.
He spread the article over the ranger's form, then lay back down. The last thing he wanted was for Aragorn to become sick because of a little carelessness and a bad situation. He moved slowly so as not to aggravate his wounds, and his gaze never strayed from the human by his side.
If he knew the other at all (and he did), then he was sure Aragorn was blaming himself for the prince's injury. Never mind that there was nothing he could have done. Never mind that the human's actions and care had saved his life. Never mind that Legolas could take care of himself. Never mind that he had told Aragorn not to blame himself, that it was not his fault. Until Legolas was hale, the young ranger would heed none of it, greedily assuming every piece of guilt for his own, regardless of who was actually at fault.
It was a situation that greatly frustrated the wood-elf for he hated the pain he knew Aragorn inflicted upon himself with the self-conflagration, yet he knew not what to do--if, indeed, there was anything he could do. But he knew he wanted to help his friend.
He sighed, his blue eyes taking in the steady rise and fall of the other's chest, the young man's head turned his direction, one hand across his chest and the other sprawled out towards the elf prince across the floor. His eyes were closed, and the young human looked peaceful, young even, but definately at ease. And that, more than anything else could have, allowed the elf to seek his own rest.
One thing he knew he could do for his friend was get well. And he fully intended to do just that. The last thing he wanted was Aragorn mothering him. Again.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"You would condemn them to death?"
"Better them than us!" cried another. Murmurs of agreement swept through the small building claimed for the meeting.
"But they are innocent!"
"So are we!" exclaimed yet another. "We have done nothing to deserve the bane placed upon our heads."
"They are ignorant!" The man who spoke had gray hair and sharp gray eyes that spoke of intelligence. His shoulders were slightly stooped with fatigue, but none could say he was frail nor weak. Being of advanced years numbering forty and seven, he was easily the eldest of the group.
His cry forced some to avert their gaze, but not all. One man, with sharp eyes, a brownish-green in color and sand-blonde hair did not. He was young and strong, a leader to his people. "So, too, were we when this sentence was placed upon our heads. We wandered here in our ignorance, and so, too, did they. Thier fate deserves to be no less than our own."
Silence met that pronouncement, though hesitant nods of agreement could be seen, made by people too terrified to volunteer for the sentence they were handing out, but too frightened to speak up in their conviction. Gray eyes swept across those in attendence, watching as each surrounding gaze dropped in shame.
His jaw tightened. Long had he been overlooked, passed over as this time came again and again to smite the people of this village, his home. He was accounted both strong and wise by those younger than him, granted a power among them he was not sure how he had come by, but seemed to have lost when everything in him screamed that he needed it.
A proud man, he disliked being waited on, disliked being coddled, disliked forcing on others tasks he would prefer to accomplish himself. He abhorred the idea of buying his life with that of another. Each time he had been passed over, been allowed to live, his family had rejoiced. Each time another had gone in his place, a friend, the loved one of another, and each time it ate at him a little more. Too many times had he seen this repeated, so he determined to end it the only way he knew how.
"And my fate, as well. Why not spare them and send me?" he demanded, then continued before his family could object. "Many years have I watched our people dwindle, the young culled, often them also being the strong. For some reason I have been spared thus far, but it is not a pattern I wish continued. Too many friends have I seen snatched form us to wish to live to see more."
"You cannot be sent in their stead," the blonde-haired man spoke. "You are but one; two are needed. Also, there is no guarantee you would be accepted, having been passed over so many times. If she is not pleased, she will take her wrath out on more, and perhaps demand more. You would not wish to be the cause of more suffering than we face already?"
Brown-green eyes bore into solid gray, a test of wills that the latter already knew he would lose, for he could not risk his village, not even to spare himself more pain. His jaw tightened, and he lifted his head, refusing to look away, but the answer was visible in his eyes.
"She comes tomorrow at dusk," the young man continued once he had secured the elder's cooperation, his gaze falling on each being in the room. "We can not let them suspect anything, and will give them this night free. We will drug them at lunch, and prepare them for the sacrifice."
Both relieved and guilty, the people walked out and retired to their own homes. Thier walks were unsteady, sometimes moving faster, some slower, the implications of their choices weighing heavily on their mind. They always did. Always the relief and guilt were there. Always, it would remain.
Slate gray eyes sought out the hut where the two outsiders slept, his eyes catching the slowly dying flame that would soon fade to embers, and knew that the two lives within would soon follow the same pattern.
He looked down, grief heavy on his heart though no tears came. He had run out of tears years ago. Instead, he turned and walked further away, taking up an ax as he went. They yet needed firewood for the coming winter, and he would get no sleep this night.